


Patches of Pink

by isleofdreams



Series: on the nth day of dt week the server gave to me [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bittersweet Ending, Clubbing, Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Love Confessions, M/M, Unhappy Ending, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25729087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isleofdreams/pseuds/isleofdreams
Summary: Yellow and blue are the only colours George can see.It's boring. His world is boring.Until an art major accidentally spills water all over him, and in the process, accidentally spills colours all over George's world.Suddenly, George doesn't find yellow boring anymore.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF) & Sapnap
Series: on the nth day of dt week the server gave to me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1866301
Comments: 170
Kudos: 793
Collections: Dream Team Week 2020





	Patches of Pink

**Author's Note:**

> hi! 
> 
> serious notes: these are merely their personas, meaning that any information that they are comfortable sharing will be used. this does not represent them in any way at all, and please do not shove this ship into their faces. if anyone is uncomfortable with this, it will be taken down immediately
> 
> serious stuff over. this is a 10k words oneshot, took me way too long, but i really liked it. i hope you, too, enjoy it. (do i get the prize for having the longest oneshot in dnf?)
> 
> i joined a dt week thingy, by the way. there are prompts for every day, so this is the first day! do click on the collections tag thing if you wanna read more from other amazing authors!
> 
> PROMPT FOR DAY 1: music and colour
> 
> as an additional challenge for me, i asked three of my friends to choose between angst and fluff for the day. well, guess what today's theme was lmao
> 
> there will be colours that represent a certain meaning. if you wanna try guessing it, feel free, but if you want to know about the colours and what they represent, feel free to skip to the end notes to check it out!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: alcohol is mentioned!
> 
> enjoy! <3

Everything is yellow.

Everything is yellow to George, and occasionally, a shade of blue pops up, and he gets excited over it. Everything is so dull and bland in George’s view, and George is so sick of it, so tired of the different shades of yellows, so tired of the fact that everyone else can see an assortment of colours ranging from red to green to purple, but he’s stuck with piss.

Yellow is a colour that represents happiness, but when it's a constant that happens far too many times in George’s life, he gets sick of it.

Yellow is not even a nice colour.

He used to blame his ancestors for having the gene, for passing it onto him, like some sort of sick inheritance that he is forced to receive. He used to be angry at the world, angry at everyone who takes colours for granted, who complains about how they can’t find the best shade of purple that fits them or the correct combination of red and yellow to make sunset orange. 

He can’t even see sunsets properly.

He used to be angry, until he’s so sick of being angry that he stops. He doesn’t fight it anymore. He accepts defeat.

Everything is yellow, until one day, someone walks in and splashes colours over his canvas of life, stuttering as they mutter apologies over and over again, trying to pick up the mess he has accidentally created as he attempts to scrub the paint away.

But to George, the splatter of colours is the prettiest thing he has ever seen.

* * *

George met Dream in his second year of university.

It involves a small accident which includes clumsy footsteps and a glass of water. Before George knows it, he is on the floor, the front of his shirt soaking wet as a boy stands in front of him, eyes wide in horror. The boy almost trips over his own feet as he throws waves and waves of apologies to George, reaching out a hand to help George up. Some of the boy’s dirty blonde hair falls in front of his panicked eyes, and George barely sees anything else as the background blends into white noise and burry figures. 

He snaps out of his daze when a crumpled piece of paper is shoved into his hand, the boy averting his gaze somewhere else in embarrassment, a blush on his freckled face. Hesitantly, George receives the paper, and on it, a string of numbers.

“I… uh, I gotta go, but if you’re free, I could get you coffee as compensation? Or apology? I’m sorry, but I really, uh- I really need to leave- I’m sorry-”

The clinking of paint brushes against empty glass is heard as the boy rushed off, not giving George a chance to catch him. George reaches out, but the boy is gone, just like the wind, leaving George with nothing but a splash of water and his number.

* * *

_George404: you never told me your name_

_dreamer: who are you?_

_George404: the guy you spilled water on_

_dreamer: oh shit yeah  
dreamer: im sorry about that  
dreamer: im dream btw_

Dream. He’s called Dream.

He saves his contact number, and after a formal introduction, they start to talk. It starts off awkward at first, with speech bubbles that last way too long and retracted messages that both are too shy to send, but soon it eases into something more comfortable. George learns that Dream is majoring in art, and he wants to be a graphic designer. In exchange, George tells him that he’s a computer science major with the hopes of being a web developer in the future. They share their love for cats and Minecraft, and yells about their own courses and how strenuous they are.

George decides that he’s going to be online for a few more minutes, but minutes turn into hours as they keep sending each other messages after messages, the conversation never ending. 

Truth be told, George doesn’t want it to end, either. However, a small yawn cuts him off as he stops texting, and glances at the time. He jumps up in shock when it reads three in the morning, and he _swears_ it was nine just minutes before. 

His head almost hits the top bunk as he scrambles to get out of his bed, realising that he has barely started on the project that he was assigned three months ago. It’s due tomorrow (or today, but George doesn’t want to think about it), and his plan of rushing it the night before is ruined thanks to Dream.

He sends a quick goodbye message, and throws his phone on his bed, rushing to his work table. His roommate, Sapnap, is snoring peacefully, fast asleep. George lets out a groan, his fingers tapping on his table desperately, praying that his computer doesn’t crash on him on this last second.

His phone lights up with a notification, but he barely acknowledges it, eyes glued to the bright screen of his laptop. His heart is racing steadily, and he stifles another yawn, knocking on his head as if it helps him focus.

 _It’s Dream’s fault_ , he thinks, but the words don’t come out bitter and malicious.

* * *

He manages to finish it.

It’s sloppily thrown together, sure, but even if it doesn’t grant him a full scholarship to Harvard or Oxford, it’ll help him pass his class, which is all that George is hoping for. And really, his expectations for himself have decreased exponentially as soon as he steps into this university, so a big, fat D on this project doesn’t hurt.

He’s barely awake. He checks his phone.

_Dream: bye :(  
Dream: you wanna meet up again?  
Dream: for coffe or something_

A small smile finds its way on his face as his fingers type out a response.

_George404: sure  
George404: send me time and date_

It’s nothing much, but the smile is still plastered on his face even after class ends, even after his professor has given him a look of disappointment as he glances through his project. When Sapnap questions him about his cheeriness, George’s grin only extends further and he feels his cheeks start hurting.

God, his expectations really did fall, didn’t it?

* * *

The little bell on the glass door welcomes him into the shop as it chimes. George looks around, squinting his eyes in search of Dream, when a pair of waving arms catches his attention.

George makes his way through the crowded cafe, mumbling apologies as he bumps into strangers who give him nothing more than a side glance. Battling the sea of people, he finally reaches Dream, a sheepish grin on his face.

“Sorry I’m late,” George says, “I had to stay back.”

“It’s alright. I didn’t wait long, anyway.”

Then, Dream slides a cup of unknown liquid across the table, and George raises an eyebrow in question. 

“Hot chocolate. I didn’t know what you liked, and the queue was growing, so I got it so that you didn’t have to wait when you came,” he whispers, rubbing his hands together. “Sorry for the crowd, by the way. There aren't as many people usually.”

“It’s fine,” George puts his bag on the empty space beside him, and takes a sip. It’s creamy, with just enough milk and just the right temperature to trickle into his heart. George hums in approval, his eyes closed as he lets the warmth spread over his entire body, perfect for the cool weather that has blessed Florida today. “God, this is good.”

“Yeah?” Dream chuckles, lifting his own cup. “It’s their signature. I’m glad you liked it, then.”

A satisfied sigh slips through his lips, and he puts the drink down, though his hands are still wrapped around the cup for comfort. Leaning his head against the seats, he glances around.

Small plants are scattered throughout the shop, hanging by the windows near the booths. A blackboard sits behind the counter, its surface covered by colourful writings of today’s specials and recommended drinks. Soft music plays in the background as the smell of ground coffee radiates across the entire cafe, and George feels himself instantly relax as he melts into the soft cushions of the booth.

“I never knew this place existed,” George mumbles, supporting his head with his hand as he scans around, his elbow propping him up. Dream lets out a small smile at that.

“Well, now you know. Lots of students come here, so I’m surprised that you didn’t know about this place.”

George lets his eyes flick over to Dream, who has a smirk on his face. He feels his face heat up, and a small ‘shut up’ slips past his lips. 

“You aren’t from here, are you?” Dream asks, something unfamiliar twinkling in his eyes. It’s possibly the lighting in the cafe, so George brushes it off.

“I’m British.”

Dream nods, his fingers intertwined as he places his hands on the table. “So, you like this place?”

“It’s hot as hell, that’s for sure,” George mumbles, and his eyes widen as he covers his mouth in surprise. His cheeks are on fire as he averts his eyes away from Dream, cursing at himself. _Seriously? What the hell was that?_

For a moment, everything stills. 

Then, Dream lets out a loud wheeze. George glances over, and Dream is trying to contain himself as he leans back and howls in laughter, holding his stomach like George has said the best joke in the universe. He sees customers give them a curious look, but he is focused on the red-faced boy in front of him. At one point, Dream almost falls off the booth.

“You good?”

“The first- the first thing I ask, and you- oh my god,” Dream shakes his head as he takes in deep breath, wiping away a tear as he sputters out another wheeze. George has never seen anyone wheeze that hard before. Dream is desperately trying to calm himself down, which emits a snort from George. “Wait, give- gimme a sec.”

The absurdity of the entire situation causes George to start snickering, and soon he’s laughing too, Dream following him. His hands switch between clutching his sides and flailing hopelessly, which makes Dream laugh even harder.

 _God, we’re such idiots_ , George thinks as he bites on his lip, holding in another wave of laughter.

But that’s the point of having friends, isn’t it?

* * *

The splattered colours on George’s canvas of life are nothing but an assortment of paint thrown together, a haphazard artwork created carelessly that even a toddler could do better.

Normally, he’d scrutinise the work, scoffing a little at how pretentious it is to find meaning in the mess of colours. He thinks abstract art is bullshit, because unlike the Renaissance period that produced memorable works such as the Mona Lisa and The Last Supper, abstract art is easily replaceable. Easily forgotten. Easily duplicable. 

But it’s Dream who has created this mess, and suddenly, he sees the beauty in it. He sees how they bloom like flowers, changing his life for the better. Although he doesn’t see it, he feels the warmness of red clashing with the coolness of blue, and along with the calming nature of green and vibrant yellow, they give him meaning and purpose. The boldness of purple and striking orange may be a sore view to outsiders, but to George, they complement each other like bread and butter.

George laughs at another stupid joke Dream made, almost choking on his cup of hot chocolate.

Another streak of yellow finds its way onto the canvas.

Suddenly, he doesn’t find yellow boring anymore.

* * *

“You have a girlfriend, don’t you?”

He’s back at his own dorm, a wide, stupid grin plastered on his face as he collapses onto his bed. Sapnap’s accusing tone cuts through the silence, and George realises that he has abandoned his homework to stare at George, squinting a little as he reads his friend.

“Well, no,” George mutters, “I just went out to have coffee with someone.”

His face goes red for a moment, so he turns around to busy himself with getting clothes from the closet as he thinks about the moment with Dream. He blames the blush on the cold weather outside. He turns around, and Sapnap’s eyes are still on him.

“You do!” Sapnap yells, and George groans, covering his face. Sapnap scrambles out of his seat, like a child on a Christmas morning, and tackles George. “Who is it?”

George ignores him as he pushes Sapnap off him, and Sapnap whines, following George around the little room. 

“Sap, leave me alone.” George rolls his eyes. “I don’t even- dude, I don’t even like girls!”

“Ooooh,” Sapnap’s eyes glimmer in excitement, and George regrets telling Sapnap that. “Is it a boy? Did Georgie find a boyfriend?”

“Yeah, sure, it’s you,” George deadpans. Sapnap lets out a loud ‘ew!’ as he slaps George on the arm, earning a laugh from George.

“My standards aren’t that low, buddy,” Sapnap teases, “but can I be the first to know? If you ever have someone, I mean.”

George doesn’t think much as he agrees, pulling out his laptop as he falls onto his bed. Sapnap returns to his work.

Dream flashes across his mind, just for a brief moment, and George bites on his lip as some sort of unfamiliar warmth washes over his body, pooling near his heart.

George throws his thoughts out of the window.

* * *

George and Dream’s friendship grows stronger everyday.

George thinks it’s kind of cliche, with the way they met and the way their friendship started blossoming just because of a spilled glass of water (which, Dream reveals is for painting) and a string of numbers. It’s as if they’re destined to meet.

He’s currently sitting by Dream’s tableside, humming a small tune as he watches Dream struggle with balancing the palette on his lap, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth a little as his dirty paintbrush narrowly avoids the canvas, a disaster barely missed. 

It’s autumn, and Sapnap is in class. His professor has dismissed them earlier, complaining about a hangover (which George finds sketchy, but appreciates the break nonetheless). Usually, he’d meet Dream at the coffee shop, but the latter has decided to stay in his dorm to complete a year end project. After pestering Dream for a while, Dream caves in and invites George to his dorm, and George finds it a pleasant surprise when he realises that Dream’s dorm is just above his.

Which is how George ends up being surrounded by bottles of paintbrushes and an assortment of art materials scattered across the room, as canvases and files of various sizes are placed against the pale yellow walls. It’s a mess, but George doesn’t mind it as he curls up on the chair, watching Dream paint. A faint piano melody serves as a background music to fill in the silence, and everything is peaceful. 

“Fuck!” 

George jumps, almost falling off the chair. Dream scrambles up from his seat, snatching the box of tissue that sits on the table. He frantically dabs at the canvas, his palette and paintbrushes forgotten on the floor, and lets out a frustrated sigh as he tries to fix his mistake. 

“You okay?”

“No, I-” he sighs again, defeated, as his hands fall to his side. There is orange (or so George assumes) paint on the surface of the tissue. “I messed up.”

“Can I see?” George asks, and Dream eyes him wearily. “You don’t have to show me if you’re not comfortable.”

Dream steps to the side a little, a silent invitation for George to join him. Hopping off the seat, he walks over to Dream, who is washing his paintbrushes in the small bottle of water, swirling it until the clear water turns grey and murky.

He turns, and-

Holy fuck.

The open jaws of a cobra meet his eyes, the hood of the reptile causing it to appear larger than expected as venom drips down its fangs, its eyes holding sinister glare which makes George shiver in fear. His eyes follow the body of the snake, noticing a small keyhole at the top of the cobra’s head. A distressed girl is trapped as the cobra’s body coils around her, a golden key hanging by its neck, glimmering in the light. Going further below, its body morphs into the base of a tree, the roots sunk deeply into the ground.

George has to remind himself to breathe as he stares, trying to take in everything at once. The clinking of Dream’s paintbrushes fills in the silence as the piano fades away.

“It’s not that good,” Dream comments, picking up his palette of colours.

“What the hell do you mean, I- dude, this looks phenomenal!” George says, but Dream merely shrugs as he places the materials on the table. “Also, what do you mean when you said you messed up?”

“Here,” Dream points with the blunt end of a paintbrush, at a speck of paint that’s barely visible. “See this dot? It’s not supposed to be there.”

George’s eyes follow, and his vision refocuses as he spots the mistake. “C’mon, it’s not even, like, _that_ obvious.”

“It is! This is supposed to be a part of my exam,” Dream complains as he pulls out a file from the stack of revision papers, and George barely catches the words on the black surface as Dream flips it open, the plastic folders gliding smoothly against each other until he stops at a page. He pulls out a piece of paper, presumably with undone work on it, and places it on the table.

“Look, no one’s gonna see it-”

“But I am!” 

George sighs, and locks eyes with the cobra again. “Is there like… any meaning behind this? Interpretation thing?”

Dream’s hands freeze for a moment, but he continues to guide his mechanical pencil across the surface of the paper, tracing something out. “Uh, I don’t know if you wanna know.”

“I want to,” George says, the determination in his voice shocking him a little, so he softens his tone. “I mean, if you’re comfortable sharing.”

George sees Dream bite on his lip, a flash of uncertainty crossing his eyes. The room is silent, and George almost waves it away and tells Dream that it’s alright, when Dream clears his throat. 

“I… I don’t know, I haven’t thought of it that far. I guess the girl just represents my fear holding me back, y’know? Like, you’re trapped, and the key is your freedom, but to get the key you have to face your own fear first, those kind of thing,” Dream says, though his eyes are fixed on the page in front of him. “It’s stupid, really.”

“No, I mean… it’s alright, i guess.” George shrugs. “Just didn’t expect it. It’s good though.”

Dream lets out a small huff, though whether it’s from satisfaction or relief, George can’t tell. He moves from the painting, letting his eyes linger on it for a little longer before silently bidding the cobra goodbye. He moves towards Dream slowly, and Dream looks up for a moment before diving back down to continue his work. 

“What’re you doing?” George attempts to peer over Dream’s shoulder, but the latter immediately shielded the paper with his body, pulling it closer to himself. George takes a few steps back, an apologetic smile on his face.

“Sorry, I just don’t like it when people look at stuff that’s not completed.”

“It’s fine,” George says. “Can I look at your other works?”

Dream looks up at George, contemplating, and George can almost see the inner battle that’s happening behind his eyes. He gives in with a sigh, and leans over to pull out a ring-binded book, the back stained with brown-colored liquid handing it to George.

“Warning: it’s not as good as my proper pieces. Just don’t look at the last page.”

That instantly sparks George’s curiosity, but he suppresses it as he walks over to Dream’s bed, sitting on it. Opening the cover, he sucks in a deep breath in amazement. 

They are pencil sketches, but although the lineart isn’t smooth, and the pieces a little messy, it still captures the realism in it. At a corner, a cat is glancing curiously at a butterfly, its paws sticking up, while on the bottom left, a girl is reading a book as she listens to music, seemingly immersed in her own world. Flowers of various species are blooming, and George lets his fingers graze the page. 

Another page flips, and George is brought to yet another world. A dragon is breathing fire, glaring at George with ferocity, wings opened as it lets out a roar. Contrasting that scene, a lake sits peacefully at the bottom right corner of the page, cattails swaying in the wind as dragonflies buzz happily, occasionally dipping their tails into the water, sending ripples down the still surface.

“Dream, god-”

“Yeah, uh, it’s not that great-”

“What are you talking about?” George interrupts him. “They look perfect! How do you even draw that well?”

Dream only chuckles. “Practice.”

They fall into silence again as George continues to admire the sketches, but when his fingers graze the back of the sketchbook, where a stain (coffee?) is present, signalling that he’s reaching the last page, he freezes. He’s tempted, very tempted, to flip it, to see what Dream has hidden. 

He almost caves in, but the rational voice in him stops him, and he snaps the book shut before he has an opportunity to change his mind. After returning the book back to Dream, he turns around, only to hear Dream clear his throat to get his attention. 

“Uh… this might sound weird, but can I draw you?”

George almost stumbles. He’s staring at Dream, and the latter is shifting in his seat, fiddling awkwardly with the pencil in his hand. He’s biting on his lip.

“I mean, you don’t have to-”

“Why do you wanna draw me?”

George swears he can see Dream’s cheeks turn just the slightest shade of pink, but he blames it on the cold wind that’s blowing into Dream’s room through the slight crack in the window. 

“I, uh… anatomy practice.” Dream looks away. 

“Where do you want me to sit?” George asks, though he is making his way back to Dream’s bed. Dream shrugs.

“Anywhere is fine, as long as you’re comfortable,” Dream says, a relieved smile on his face as he picks up his sketchbook. “Just don’t look stiff or something. Pretend I’m not here.”

George chooses to look at his phone, leaning against the wall. He tries to settle down, but the thought of Dream watching him, sketching out his features, sends a shiver down George’s spine. The feeling of Dream’s eyes on him, picking out all the details as he transfers it onto paper, makes George nervous and self-conscious. He subconsciously picks at his fingernails.

It’s weird, but it feels… nice, almost. To have Dream’s eyes on him, having his full attention. He feels vulnerable as Dream picks him apart, examining him like a specimen, but a part of him likes how Dream’s eyes are travelling from the curve of his nose to the back of his head, how Dream dives into the finer details of himself, and he almost feels the tip of the pencil tickle at his ear. 

If it were any other person, George would’ve denied it immediately, rejecting the offer, even finding it weird. But when it’s Dream, George doesn’t find it in his heart to reject him, because it’s nearly impossible to say no to doe eyes and freckled smiles. It’s nearly impossible to say no when his heart is pounding so quickly, breaths so shallow as if he might break something in the atmosphere if he’s too rough, too loud. 

It’s nearly impossible to say no because he doesn’t want to.

George’s heart drops at the sudden realisation, and his phone almost slips out of his grasp.

A bold stroke of pink stretches across his canvas. He has seen this colour before, but they’ve only been appearing in dots whenever he walks past someone cute, or in thin lines whenever someone he finds fond comes to talk to him. He stumbles away from the obnoxious colour, and looks down at his own hands. 

Pink. They’re covered in pink.

_Fuck._

* * *

The sketch of George scrolling through his phone on Dream’s bed is sitting on George’s table, untouched ever since George has returned back to his dorm.

He’s shaking under the covers a little, as if the extra blankets are able to shield him from his own feelings. The room is dark, and he wraps the blankets closer to him, squeezing his eyes shut. 

Grey finds itself beside the stroke of pink. 

Somehow, George’s phone is in his hand, and he’s calling Sapnap’s number before he realises it.

“Hello?”

“Sap, fuck, I-”

“What’s wrong?” Sapnap asks, worry dripping from his words. George hears papers shuffling from the other end, and realises that he’s in class. “George?”

“Shit, never mind. Sorry, go back to your-”

“Too late, George,” Sapnap chuckles, “I’m going back. Are you safe?”

“No, it’s stupid, I’m sorry I shouldn’t have called I-”

“George. Breathe,” Sapnap orders, and George doesn’t realise it until his lungs are begging for oxygen. He inhales, gasping for air, like he has just resurfaced from a deep dive in the ocean, from a deep dive into his own true feelings.

“Stay on the call with me,” Sapnap says, and his voice is the only thing grounding George, preventing him from floating away into his own thoughts. “I’m at the lift, I’ll be there in just a bit, okay?”

George whimpers, and he’s trying to fight back the sob that’s clawing its way out of his throat. 

His blanket is lifted from him. He holds onto them, onto the only protection he has from his heart, but Sapnap’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Shh, George, I’m here.”

A hand is on his shoulder, and he looks into soft, brown eyes.

Suddenly, his walls come crashing down, and he crumbles as he falls into Sapnap’s embrace.

* * *

The grey on the canvas is washed off with Sapnap’s help, but George still grumbles at the sight of the bright pink in his face. He wants to scrub it off, to remove it, so he uses his fingernails to scratch at it.

At first, flakes of pink fall to the ground, and George lets out a hum of satisfaction as he continues clawing at the canvas, but he feels his heart squeezes painfully as more paint falls, and he realises that along with the pink, yellow is falling off too.

He panics, and stops. His fingers are aching, and he turns them around and looks at his fingernails.

Yellow. 

He steps away from the canvas.

More pink fills in the blank spaces, more viscous than before as they take over half of the canvas.

He realises his attempts are futile, so he lets it grow.

* * *

“George, please,” Dream begs, and George rolls his eyes.

They’re walking down the path leading to the dorms. It’s windy outside, and George’s hair is tousled around as the wind plays with her hair, annoying him a little. Dream, however, seems unfazed, even closing his eyes to enjoy the breeze. Leaves swirl at their feet, creating a small whirlpool, and in the distance, a few students are sitting by the benches, either chatting with their friends or simply studying. 

“Dream, I don’t do parties,” George mumbles, trying to flatten his hair for the fifth time. Dream moves in front of him, his arms up to block George from going past him. 

“C’mon, it’s Bad’s party. Look, I know him, it won’t even be _that_ bad!” Dream reasons. George raises his eyebrow, and Dream sighs. “Okay, if you don’t like it, we’ll leave, but give it a chance, please?”

Dream is pouting, and _oh fuck, he looks so cute_. George almost chokes as Dream gives him the stupid doe eye look again. His hair is tossed around, dirty blonde locks falling into his eyes which are twinkling in the sunlight. His face is a little flushed, and god, George wants to hold his cheeks and just kiss him right there and then.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets roughly, grumbling at how perfect Dream is internally, and nods.

Because how can he say no to him?

Dream whoops loudly, causing a few pigeons to fly away in shock. George rolls his eyes and walks away, Dream following closely behind.

Pink and yellow intertwines together on his canvas.

* * *

George isn’t even near the club, yet he is starting to feel nervous. Dream is in front of him, navigating through the crowds easily as he glances over his shoulder every few seconds, checking if George is still behind him. He slows down a little, allowing George to catch up to him.

“You good?” Dream asks, still maintaining the lead as he guides George, occasionally bumping into people. 

“Kinda nervous, but I’m fine,” George lets out a small laugh, though his tensed shoulders do nothing to convince Dream. George is slouching as they weave through the crowds, a telltale sign of his anxiety.

An unfamiliar warmth slips in between his fingers, and George looks down to find that Dream is holding his hand. He glances at Dream, but Dream looks away instead. Under the artificial lighting, George swears that Dream is blushing.

“I won’t leave you, George. I promise,” Dream says, and George thinks that there’s more meaning behind those words, that Dream isn’t talking about the party anymore. His heart stutters at the thought, so when his eyes meet Dream’s, the bustling crowds fade away into silence. 

All he sees is pink.

But someone bumps into him on the shoulder, and the moment is ruined. George wants to turn around and curse at the man, but he blends into the crowd before George can catch him. Dream clears his throat, and pulls George along. He releases George’s hand once the crowd thins. 

George shoves his hands into his jacket and grabs at the fabric. He doesn’t let himself think about how disappointed he is when Dream lets go, how disappointed he is that he’s missing the warmth of Dream’s hand.

He focuses on not tripping instead.

* * *

“Dream!”

A boy with neatly trimmed brown hair runs forward and hugs Dream, and Dream reciprocates it, laughing in the process. George watches and smiles awkwardly, looking around the dimly lit area, until Dream pulls on George’s arm to catch his attention.

“George, this is Bad, my roommate and my friend. Bad, George,” Dream introduces, and George puts his hand out. Bad shakes it a little too enthusiastically, a wide smile plastered on his face. 

“Oh, so you’re George, huh? Dream has talked about you a lot,” Bad grins. Dream reaches over to knock Bad on the head, earning him a yelp as Bad complains about it. 

“Well, I’ll leave you two be. Enjoy the night!” Bad waves, but before he leaves, George sees him flash a knowing smirk at Dream, to which Dream widens his eyes at. The silent conversation causes George to feel a little left out, so he fumbles at the hem of his hoodie until Dream taps on his shoulder.

“You want some drinks?”

George shakes his head, but still follows Dream to the counter, where he asks for vodka. George settles on a stool as they wait for the bartender to fix his drink. 

The music is pounding in his ears, and he can feel the ground shaking with every bass drop. Some of the wilder, braver ones are already on the dance floor, grinding against each other and dancing their night away, drinks spilling onto the floor. He recognises a few from his classes, but he doesn’t bother to wave hello. 

A thud against the counter pulls him out of his trance, and Dream is already accepting the two small cups from the man, thanking him in the process. He leads the both of them to a booth, away from the flashing lights and dancing mob, which George is grateful for.

“So… how do you feel?” Dream asks as he takes a cautious sip, testing out the waters. 

“Not good, but not bad,” George shrugs. “To be honest, it’s not as bad as I’d thought.”

“That’s good.” Dream downs the entire cup as he throws an arm around George’s shoulders. 

George doesn’t budge.

* * *

It’s boring.

For the past hour, George has been on his phone, scrolling and refreshing his various social media. Despite Bad’s warning about not posting anything online, he sees some of the popular kids recording themselves downing drinks. 

George rolls his eyes, and scrolls past it.

“Georgie~” Dream chuckles as he places his head on George’s shoulder, causing George to freeze up a little. Dream is slurring his words, and George can smell the bitter alcohol radiating off him.

“How much did you drink?”

Dream sticks out his bottom lip as he thinks, wrapping his hands around George’s arm. He’s lying down, his long legs splayed out across the cushion. He giggles, and snuggles into George’s side, mumbling out ‘four’

“Dream, oh my god, you’re flat out drunk,” George says. “Let’s get you back.”

He tries to stand up, but Dream drags him back down, causing him to stumble back onto the couch. Somehow, he ends up beneath Dream, pinned against the cushions. His eyes widen.

Dream is above him, and even in the dim lighting, George can see the blush on Dream’s freckled face. His eyes, although a little dazed, still burns with something strong behind them. George hears his heartbeat in his ears, and he’s hyperfocusing on Dream’s touch against his arm. 

The world seems to fade away, and although the loud music and multicoloured lights say otherwise, in their eyes, it’s just Dream and George, George and Dream alone.

George sees Dream’s gaze flick down to his lips, then back up, a silent consent. They’re so close together that George can feel Dream’s breathing mingle with his. 

He nods, and Dream leans down.

As soon as their lips touch, George feels the butterflies in his stomach burst alive, and the pressure of Dream’s hand against his cheeks causes his toes to curl a little. Closing his eyes, he feels Dream push harder against him, tilting his head to get a better angle. He lets his fingers glide down Dream’s side, running along the soft material of his hoodie, feeling his waist underneath it. The strong taste of vodka lingers in his mouth, and his head is spinning, because despite not having touched a single drop of alcohol tonight, he’s drunk on Dream’s kiss alone. 

But he doesn’t mind it. 

They part, and George opens his eyes to look at Dream, a lopsided smile on his face. Dream looks back with half-lidded eyes, his hair messy. George wants to lean in again, to set the fireworks off, but he freezes as a thought flashes across his mind.

_Dream’s drunk._

George stops himself, and removes his hands from Dream’s waist. He slowly nudges Dream off him, gently supporting Dream so that the latter can stand up. Putting an arm around Dream’s waist, he goes and finds Bad to say goodbye.

With Sapnap’s consent and help, the duo lets Dream stay the night at their dorm. As the drunk boy starts to snore, Sapnap turns to George, his eyebrow raised.

“This the guy you like?”

George rolls his eyes.

That night, George sleeps on the floor.

* * *

When George wakes up the next morning, Dream is already gone. George asks Sapnap about it, but he only shrugs.

“He’s gone. Just like that. I never even heard him or anything.” Sapnap turns back to his project.

George checks his phone. No new messages from Dream, either.

George figures that Dream just needs rest: after all, he did get drunk off his head, but his heart still drops at the thought that Dream never bothered to stay or even leave a message. 

Last night’s events flash through his mind. He pushes it back down.

Another streak of grey paints itself over pink.

* * *

It’s been three days, and George still receives nothing from Dream.

He chucks his phone onto his bed, collapsing on it as he lets out a deep sigh.

It’s boring without Dream.

* * *

George spots Dream in the crowded hallway five days later.

At first, George waves at Dream enthusiastically, happy to see his friend after a long time. He expects Dream to return his greeting with the same enthusiasm, but the smile on his face drops as Dream glances at him and walks away. 

The arm that’s raised lowers slowly, and George feels like he’s back in high school all over again, ignored by his friends.

Grey. There’s so much grey on the canvas, but a thin line of red strikes across the dull colour. 

He lowers his head and continues the journey to his lessons.

* * *

George is fuming.

It has been almost a week, and despite multiple long messages asking if Dream is okay, he only receives one word answers. It’s as if Dream is trying to distance himself from George, as if he’s pretending that for the past few months, he hasn’t been George’s best friend, as if he’s trying to forget whatever had happened between them, forget their friendship.

And frankly? George is hurt, and pissed off.

Every single time he has seen Dream in the hallway, he’d try to catch Dream’s attention, but the latter ignores him, as if he is nothing but the wind, a mere speck of dust in the air, as if he’s invisible. George has tried to chase him down, but Dream is out of his sight before he is able to.

There’s more red and grey on the canvas, but pink still stands out, and George fucking hates it. He wants to tear it apart, stomp on it, scream at the stupid bright _happy_ colour until his voice goes hoarse, until he can’t talk for a few days. 

Because love can be cute, and sweet, like cotton candy, a rose in the middle of a field, but underneath the fluff and the happiness lies thorns that prick, sinking their teeth deeper into your heart until you can barely breathe, until you’re begging for someone, _anyone_ , to tear your heart out just to spare you from the suffering. Because underneath sweet, warm hot chocolates and stained paint brushes and pretty boys lie broken hearts and red-rimmed eyes and messed up canvases.

Pink stares back at him, sickly and sweet, and George swears he can smell perfume from it. George looks away.

Love is a sick and unfair game. And by the looks of it, George is losing. 

* * *

George is done.

He’s done waiting for Dream to return to him, to apologise to him. He’s done sitting around, wallowing in self pity. He’s done crying himself to sleep, his mind repeating the single, stupid scene at the party.

He’s done.

Before he realises it, he finds himself outside of Dream’s dorm room, the smooth polished wooden door in front of his face, the bold, golden numbers shining under the artificial lighting. Despite having anger coursing through his system for the past few days, they suddenly disappear as soon as he stands in front of the familiar door. His palms are sweating, and he’s double checking the numbers on the plaque as if he doesn’t have it memorised, as if they aren’t repeating in his head over and over again when he’s making his way up. He can feel himself trembling a little, his heart beating loudly in his ears. 

Amber weaves its way onto the canvas. 

He gulps, and closes his eyes as he brings himself to knock on it. Once, then twice.

The door opens, and Bad is standing in front of him. 

“Hey there, buddy!” Bad smiles, positioning himself in between the gap, his body covering George’s view. “You good?”

“Uh… yeah,” George says, and his throat is dry. He licks his lips. “Do you know where Dream is?”

He sees Bad freeze for a moment, his relaxed stance tensing up a bit. Bad crosses his arms. “Nope, don’t know where he is, sorry.”

George sighs, and looks into Bad’s eyes. “Bad, I know Dream is in there. He literally has no classes for this time slot. Please let me in? I need to talk to him.”

“I don’t think-”

“Don’t let him in.”

George hears Dream’s voice, and gives Bad a glare. He tries to shove past the latter, but Bad stands firm in his ground, not even moving an inch when George had pushed him. George lets out a frustrated sigh, and tries his luck again. 

The pent up rage in him spills, and the bottle cracks as anger rises to take over his body. He wants to scream, because he’s had enough. He wants to throw a tantrum like a toddler, to cry and scream and punch the walls and let rage overtake him and forget all the consequences that he’s going to face later, because he needs an outlet. He’s a volcano that’s ready to explode, to destroy everything that’s in his path; a tornado that will rip apart everything, and will not hesitate to do so.

He lets out a roar, and punches the wall beside the door. Bad’s eyes widen in shock, but George only breathes heavily. His fist is aching, but the adrenaline coursing through his body tempts him to do it again, so he does. 

He gives in, because he’s a fucking coward, and he can’t say no. He can never say no.

Bad’s hands are on him, pulling his fists away, but he thrashes around, legs kicking wildly as he twists his body around. There are eyes on them, pointing at the two of them, but George is so blinded by anger that he doesn’t care, throwing all his rational thinking out of the window. 

“George, stop!” Bad growls, and George feels his arms pressed into his side, Bad caging him in, restraining him. He snarls again, trying to break free, but it proves impossible as Bad holds him tighter. He feels the fight leave his body, replaced by sadness. The thrashes become weaker, and soon George is slumped against Bad, burying his face into the front of his hoodie as he starts crying. 

“Bad, why does he hate me…”

Bad only sighs, releasing George and looking at him, his hands firm on George’s shoulders. “Give me a minute or two, okay? I’ll try to convince him to talk to you or something.”

George nods, giving Bad a watery smile. Bad turns around and walks back into the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. The onlookers slowly thin, some giving George a look of pity, but he ignores them as he slides down against the wall, hugging himself. He closes his eyes, and leans his forehead against his forearms. 

Everything is silent, except for the echoing footsteps of passer-bys, unaware of George’s situation as they glance at him in curiosity. He feels like one of the last few middle schoolers waiting for his parents to pick him up, and he hates how hopeless he is right now.

A door creaks, and his head shoots up so quickly that he almost gets whiplash as his eyes refocus on the bright surroundings. He feels dizzy, but he still makes out Bad in front of him, hands on his arms. 

“Go in,” Bad says softly, helping George up. George stumbles a little, holding onto Bad for support as they make their way to the dorm room. As he reaches the door, he stops, and Bad looks at him, confused.

“Thank you, Bad.” Giving Bad a small smile, he takes a deep breath. Bad releases George from his grasp, making sure that George is stable enough to walk in on his own as he remains in the hallway.

George’s eyes remain downcast as he walks into the room, and as he hears a soft click behind him, he realises that he’s alone with Dream. His heart races wildly again, though there is bittersweetness behind it as his stomach fills with butterflies. 

He looks up.

Dream is sitting by the table, his back facing George, though the latter knows that he is aware of George’s presence by the way he’s sitting straight up, his shoulders too tense and the grip on his pencil too tight.

The room is too empty for George’s liking, the paintings and art files previously littered across the floor neatly tucked away in a corner. The messy paintbrushes sit neatly in dirty glass bottles, and somehow, it feels almost wrong to see Dream so neat, to see everything placed nicely in their places, as if they don’t belong there.

“So,” George says, breaking the silence. Dream’s hand stops.

“So,” Dream parrots, “why are you here?”

George feels the familiar heat pool in his heart, but he directs his anger to his fists instead, which are clenched by his sides. Gritting on his teeth, he suppresses the urge to snap at Dream, instead clearing his throat.

“We need to talk.”

“Talk about what?” 

George loses it.

“Talk about what happened! What the fuck do you mean by ‘talk about what?’, huh? The thing that’s happening between us? You ignoring me? There’s a lot to talk about, _Dream_ ,” he snarls, venom dripping viciously from his words, and though Dream’s back is facing him, George can see Dream wince. 

“I don’t wanna talk about that.”

The sound of pencil against paper annoys George, so he strides across the room, and with some newfound strength and courage that he doesn’t realise he has, rips the instrument away from Dream’s hand.

“So are you just gonna ignore me, huh? Ignore the friendship that we build, and ignore what happened at the party, if you even _remember_ it-”

“I remember, George!” Dream yells, and George jumps at Dream’s outburst. “I remember every single fucking thing! What, you think just because I was drunk I’d forget about it? No! It’s there, and it’s replaying in my mind over and over and over _again_!”

“Well, then-”

“I fucking like you, George, if you aren’t aware of it,” Dream scoffs, and amidst the yelling, he has stood up. “and it’s a mistake.”

George’s heart drops. “What- what do you mean by that?”

“Why did you think I ignored you?” Dream laughs, but it’s cold, uncaring, freezing George’s soul. “Why did you think I fucking ignored you? Because it’s a mistake to let you get close to me. It’s a stupid fucking mistake for me to give you my number, to ask to meet you again and again, to let you in here. It’s a mistake to ask to draw you, to ask you to the party, to fucking _kiss_ you! Why did you think I ignored you, huh? Because it’s all one, big fucking mistake!”

“What, so you think that’d solve it? You think that by ignoring me, by leaving me on fucking read and answering one word answers, by being so goddamn _cold_ to me, you’d solve it? Because news flash, Dream, it didn’t solve shit at all!” George retaliates, ignoring the sharp pain from Dream’s words that has somehow turned into knives and drove into his heart.

They’re both angry, both bitter, and the atmosphere is so thick that George struggles to breathe, that he has to take deep breaths in order to get oxygen into his lungs. They’re wounding each other, words like lions clawing at each other, and the image of Dream’s open-mouth cobra finds its way into his head. George snorts at the resemblance, and ignores the two, tiny holes on his heart, a cobra’s bite.

A dark blue streak. 

“If you think that solved anything at all, you’re fucking stupid and selfish.” George says, jabbing his finger into Dream’s chest. 

“Oh, yeah? Then tell me what you want me to do!”

“I _like_ you, Dream!” George shouts, and the temperature seems to drop at the sudden confession. “I fucking like you too, Dream! What, you think that kiss meant nothing to me, that I’d push you away? I’ve had a fucking crush on you!

“It hurts, Dream,” George’s voice drops, and he lets his head hang, defeated and tired from the fight. “It hurts so fucking bad, for you to ignore me. I thought I did something wrong at first to drive you away.”

Dream stays silent, his eyes still on George, who is curled up against the corner, his body slumped forward. A wounded prey which has lost the fight. 

The lion emerges as a victor, but there’s no pride in this at all. 

“You- you can’t love me, George. I’m sorry,” Dream says, his gaze fixated on the crack on the wall.

“Why?” George’s voice cracks, “Why can’t I love you? Is there a rule that says ‘anyone who’s named George can’t love Dream’? Am I not good enough for you?”

“No!” Dream slams his fist on the table, and the paintbrushes clink against the glass bottles, jumping in shock. “It’s… it’s not that, I-”

“Then _what_ , Dream?”

“It’s me, alright!” Dream turns around, and for the first time since George has stepped into the room, they make eye contact. The fury and hurt behind Dream’s eyes causes George to wince, the urge to give in and comfort Dream is so strong, yet he holds his ground. “It’s me, okay! You can’t love me because… because I ruin everything! I’m a fucking mess!”

“I’m okay with that,” George says, but Dream glares at him, a twisted smile on his face.

“Everyone says that, George, but they aren’t ready at all. I’m a hurricane, a storm, a fucking mess of a human. You aren’t ready to deal with it at all, trust me. You don’t want this.” Dream gestures to himself. “You don’t want me.”

“But I do! Dream, please, let me in.” George steps forward, reaching out, but Dream steps back. It’s a broken and messed up tango, where one reaches out too far in, willing to make too many sacrifices, while the other doesn't reach in at all, too scared to commit.

“No,” Dream shakes his head, biting his lip. George feels himself crumble again. “I can’t… I can’t bear to hurt you. I can’t ruin your first relationship.”

“I don’t care!”

“But I do!”

The silence is deafening.

George has lost.

“Please, can I…” He takes in a deep breath, and wipes his tears away. ”Can I kiss you again?”

Dream doesn’t say anything, but when George takes a step forward, he doesn’t back away. George’s hands find their way against Dream’s cheeks, and he leans in slowly.

Dream doesn’t pull away when their lips touch.

It’s sickening, how George still enjoys it despite the situation that they’ve both been through. He feels a pair of hands on his waist, and he is reminded of the party again, the bitter taste of vodka lingering in his mouth. Dream is pressing back, tilting his head to get a better angle, and the desperation behind the pressure almost causes George to buckle, to cry again. He pushes forward harder, drinking it in, as if the world is ending, as if it’s his final moments.

Dream pulls away. George doesn’t chase him back. 

They stare into each other’s eyes. George lets himself fall for the last time. 

Then, he takes a step back, and feels Dream’s hands fall from his waist. Then, another step back. He lets out a watery smile, and whispers a ‘thank you’. 

He turns around before he can see Dream’s reaction. He feels Dream’s eyes send him out of the room.

A silent goodbye.

Light, pastel blue finds its way onto the canvas, but the stubborn pink still peeks from a corner.

* * *

George doesn’t look through the messages anymore. They now sit in the archives folder, where George deems that it’s where it belongs. The artwork that Dream has given him is nestled away in a forgotten folder, pressed between multiple books that George never bothers to read. His room is rid of anything that reminds him of paint and freckled smiles, as if Dream has never appeared in his life, as if the memories never existed, though at some nights, a faint taste of bitterness lingers on his tongue.

George never slept for those nights.

The report that he has rushed through on the day he met Dream is returned to him, his professor congratulating him for his good work. He gives the professor a small smile, thanking him, and acknowledges the large ‘B’ that’s circled in red ink. He doesn’t bother flipping it open, instead throwing it into a corner once he returns to his dorm.

Everything is so dull. He wonders if it has ever been like this before Dream has stepped into his life. 

He throws himself onto his bed. He feels numb. It’s a good feeling. 

It’s the feeling of having blue and black paint swirl together as they mingle on the canvas, mixing to form whirlpools of colours that resembles a darker blue. It’s the feeling of letting them layer over pink and yellow and happiness and love so that they are sealed in a bottle of darkness, never seeing the light again. It’s the feeling of emptiness when he realises he misses the memories and the person, but shoves it back into the dark corner of his mind, never touching it again.

He has only cracked once in front of Sapnap, when the latter had asked him if he was okay. Despite putting up a strong front, Sapnap still pushes the question, even going as far as locking him in the room when George wanted to leave. 

Needless to say, George bawled his eyes out that day. 

And the topic of Dream is never brought up again. 

It’s a dull ache in George’s heart, a thorn that has never been fully removed, a splinter lodged in between. He doesn’t bother to pull it out, so he lets it manifest, lets it be part of him. It’s a painful reminder, but he buries it under work and friends, a distraction that he is grateful for.

Until one day, a small white envelope is lodged between the gap under the door. George picks it up, convinced that it’s just another reminder or announcement from the university, when his eyes graze over the words on the pristine, crisp surface. 

_‘From: Dream’_

His hands are shaking when he tears the flap open, careful to not damage it. He pulls out the contents and lets the envelope float to the floor, forgotten. 

There’s two pieces of paper, one yellow and the other white. He flips the yellow paper over, and his eyes skim through the words, though his trembling hands aren’t helping.

_Hey George,_

_Once you’ve received this letter, I’m probably gone. I’m sorry, really. I know you’ll do well in uni._

_Thank you for being my friend, for making me laugh at times when I’m down. Thank you for being there for me. Just, thank you._

_I’m not good with words, you probably know that, but I just want to say that ~~I still love you~~ really valued our times together. You’re one of my best friends ~~and I’m sorry I had to hurt you~~_

_I’ll miss you._

_~~I love you so much~~ _

_~ Dream_

George bites on his lip, shaking his head. _No, Dream can’t be gone, can he?_ He moves on to the other paper, and rotates it so that it’s upright. Faintly, he sees the outline of a brown stain, darker at the edge.

It’s the last page of Dream’s sketchbook.

He wills his eyes to scan the surface, and the drawings littered on it breaks him.

It’s all him, but on different occasions. There’s one of him blanking out at Dream’s room, staring into space, and there’s another one of him drinking from a cup at the cafe he recognises. At the corner, it’s him staring at the lights at the mall, when Christmas has just rounded the corner, and beside it, his hair ruffled in the wind, an annoyed look on his face.

He’s in front of Dream’s dorm, hand still clutching the piece of paper gently, unwilling to even let a single crumple destroy it. The knocks on the door are frantic, and as it swings open, George prays that it’s Dream who meets his eyes.

When he sees Bad, his stomach drops. 

“Bad! Bad, where’s Dream?” George asks, wishing that Dream has just pulled an elaborate prank on him, and that he has never left at all.

“Oh, he left,” Bad says. “Did he not tell you?”

George stares at him, dumbfounded. He shakes his head, a delayed reaction to Bad’s question, and the pity on Bad’s face makes him want to smash himself into the wall and knock himself out.

“You don’t look so good. Do you want to go in?”

“No,” George rejects, because if he accepts the offer, he will start to crumble, the walls that he spent building falling to the ground and disintegrating into nothing but ashes as the vulnerable side of him is exposed. “No, it’s fine. Thanks, Bad.”

He hears Bad mumble ‘you’re welcome’, but the words barely reach his ears as he walks back to his dorm, and he feels like he’s swimming in the sea. He doesn’t realise he’s not breathing until his lungs are screaming for air in sharp bursts of pain, and as he takes in a deep breath, the thorn is pulled out and the dam breaks.

This time, he doesn’t call Sapnap. 

* * *

The canvas is broken.

There is a brutal slash from the top to the bottom, representing claw marks, tearing through the entire piece. Underneath the thick layers of blue and black paint, yellow and pink are still standing out, as if they are waving at him, mocking him, even.

He stares at the broken canvas, realising that he should fix it. Flakes of dry paint are littered on the floor, mostly from when Dream had tried to scrape it off, when George himself had tried to remove it. They’re mostly dark blue and pink, and as he looks back up at the canvas, the ugliness and sad state of the canvas causes him to wince. 

He should fix it.

George stands up weakly, and with a bottle of glue, sticks the canvas back together. He pushes the blocks together, mending it, gently coaxing himself that he’s okay.

He steps back and takes a look at his work. There’s still visible cracks, but all in all, the canvas is in one piece again.

He retrieves a can of fresh, white paint, and dips a paintbrush in it. At first, his hand freezes, the brush just barely above the canvas as he hesitates. He looks at the yellow paint.

And he presses the paintbrush down, lets his hand glide over the bumps formed by layers of uneven paint, burying the memories again, convincing himself to move on from the hurt. It’s hard, because his heart squeezes painfully when he makes the first stroke, and some of the paint stubbornly stands out, refusing to be covered, but it becomes easier after layers and layers of white paint, and soon, the splatters of colours are below the pristine surface.

George lets out a smile as he looks at the finished work, clean of messy colours and lazy strokes.

He has never liked abstract art anyway. It’s pretentious and meaningless, an artwork that even a toddler can complete. It’s messy, with streaks of pink and grey and blue all over the canvas, directionless, something that he has never respected. 

He walks away from the canvas, satisfied. A cup of hot chocolate sits in front of him, but it’s cold. He pours it away.

In the corner of the canvas, a streak of pink peeks out from below. 

It never goes away.

**Author's Note:**

> yellow: happiness  
> dark blue/black: hurt  
> light blue/pale blue: calm  
> pink: love :))  
> red: anger  
> amber: nervousness  
> grey: confusion
> 
> i think that's about it? if i missed out any colours, do feel free to tell me in the comments below
> 
> ALSO! how was it?
> 
> my twitter: ISLE0FDREAM


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